


Blue and Yellow Melody

by fresne



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Porn, Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, M/M, Music themed, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4798259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes requiting melancholy is best done in the shadow of blues. Rain shrouded and shared drinks.</p><p>Sometimes saving the world takes lightning yellow cracks of pleasure as well as pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unknownsister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/gifts), [chemma66](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/gifts).



> This came to me while listening to this month's Three Patch Podcast (hmmm... getting to be a habit). Specifically B and Chelsea's WBSL (music to have sex to) section. There was a very evocative description of Mycroft listening to Peggy Lee's "Black Coffee", bandy in hand, waist coat on, sleeves rolled up, as pairing of choice wraps arms around him from behind. 
> 
> I toyed with the idea of a second threesome chapter, since that was the theme of the episode, but what came out of that was something with Irene and Gazelle.
> 
> Neither chapter really has much to do with the other. Well, other than being PWP and involving Sherlockian and Kingsmen characters. Consider them sexy alternative universes where spoiler of choice doesn't happen.
> 
> The trousers also take some inspiration from Astolat's Buttoned Up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a discrete stereo, Peggy Lee sang softly of Black Coffee loneliness. The street lights cast their rain shrouded agreement and admitted only threads of light. Mycroft's books were in shadows. Mycroft was in shadow. In shadows, melancholy found a respite.

Soft beads of water from the hard rain clung blue and yellow to the library window panes where the wind flung them up past the eaves. From a discrete stereo, Peggy Lee sang softly of Black Coffee loneliness. The street lights cast their showered agreement.

Mycroft's books were in shadows. Mycroft was in shadow. Only stray threads of light spun themselves through the bevelled panes to embroider the dark wood of the liquor cabinet, the light wood of the shelves and the books they sheltered. Mycroft had left the lights off when he'd come into his library. Even Tiffany glass jewel tones too bright for his mood.

When he'd arrived home, he'd removed his jacket and put it away in the manner befitting of Mr. Porter's fine work. Removed his tie and hung it upon its colour coded rack, longing to be reunited with the burgundy silk vest he still wore. Custom should have had him in his windowless office reviewing reports. Mycroft was a lover of custom. He made love to it daily.

Instead, he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves, and gone into his library to cradle a snifter of scotch, and contemplate the rain. 

The creak of the floor boards was a courtesy before an arm wrapped around his waist and a hand slid down his bare arm to pluck the snifter from his hand. A warm body firm against his back as lips swallowed Scotch and breathed out a warm breeze across his left ear. Mycroft's skin pricked needles points of desire. 

Galahad said in words like rounded plums, "Glen Moray. 15 years." He replaced the warmed glass back in Mycroft's hand. "Limited run for the Diamond Jubilee." 

Warmth pooled down Mycroft's body, but he did nothing but wet his lips with the barest kiss of scotch and breathe out caramel heather. 

The shadow that was Galahad crossed in front of the dark blot of the couch to the liquor cabinet. There was the sound of ice being placed in a shaker. Liquid being poured into glass. A cocktail's birth rattle. Ice tinkling in steel as it was tumbled only to dissolve.

As Galahad joined Mycroft by the window, he did not say anything as banal as, "How was your day?" Anyone who was neither Sherlock nor living in a cave in a fetid jungle on Venus knew that this day had been the culmination of a series of perfectly wretched days for all of Europe. One might even say humanity. Certainly Mycroft could not say that. For all his power, Mycroft was not all powerful. He was not a mad genius in fits to sway the world on an individualist's whim.

Galahad did not live in a cave. He had a lovely flat. He had a codename and though he had a name, as a courtesy, Mycroft never used it. Galahad was who he was. Blood and bone and tailoring. The organization for which he worked were a fantastical group that dealt in chimera and mad geniuses intent upon spinning the world from its axis with a flood of killer butterflies. Galahad did not deal with the mundane and the banal. That fell to Mycroft. 

When they were younger men, the differences in their fields of operation and view of the world, in what could and could not be accomplished, had led to scalpel words and anger fuelled coupling. 

Mycroft let the rug burns of the past fall away. He brushed a finger across the healing cut of a butterfly's wing on Galahad's cheek. Behind them Peggy Lee's Black Coffee blues gave way to a single horn and a Midwestern American accent. Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "American rock. Is this some form of punishment?"

"Turn the page, Mycroft. It is not always about you." Galahad sipped from his glass and kissed Mycroft. Rainwater madeira, potato vodka and rosemary bitters flooded Mycroft's mouth from that kiss. Mycroft swallowed musky aromatics around Galahad's tongue. Pulled him closer. The music made its beats to the rustle of their movements. Tailored cotton shirts and silk waistcoats and bodies. There were always bodies under the suits.

Mycroft traded Galahad liquid kiss for kiss until both their glasses were empty of anything but promises.

Mycroft settled his glass on the window sill. The better to grip Galahad by his Charvet silk tie, paisley by the pattern under his thumb; though a terrible affront to a work of such craftsmanship. Still he did it. The better to breathe into and from Galahad's mouth. The better to let go of control as Mycroft grasped control in the dark.

The silver mother of pearl buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat and then the bone buttons of his shirt gave way to gun callused fingers. To fingers callused from gold grenade lighters and ruby laser stick pins and a multitude of other ridiculous things. Fingers that slid over the body that came of sitting at a desk for twelve hours a day, when Mycroft was not running on a treadmill while working. Slid over the softness of his belly teasing out hard pleasure that pressed against the buttons of his trousers. All the while Mycroft held the silk leash of Galahad with one hand. 

Feeling an uncharacteristic desire to be straight forward, Mycroft entirely skipped Galahad's waistcoat and shirt. One handed, he tugged Galahad's silk pocket square free and by the slow flicking of his thumb over butter soft wool, unbuttoned the bespoke of Galahad's flies. There was a chance that the square was some Kingsman ridiculousness that would blow off both their genitalia. But the only gasp into his mouth as silk finally enfolded a freed cock was one of pleasure.

Galahad shoved Mycroft back into the line of the shelves. There was a perfectly good couch three feet away, but Mycroft did not suggest they separate long enough to tumble onto it. Better to feel books against his head as he leaned back. Felt his old friend's spines as he thumbed the head of Galahad's cock through raw silk, colour impossible to definitively determine in the dark. 

Mycroft made a circle of his thumb and forefinger around the head and twisted the raw silk in the combination of a safe. Rough pants to each twist as Mycroft opened him.

Galahad followed the silk lead around his neck to be pulled closer and closer. Not making a single move to be free of that hold. 

Instead Galahad's own hands having found an Egyptian cotton square in Mycroft's vest pocket, pale yellow, made their own slow way down Mycroft's flies. The tortured flick of fingers across Mycroft's constrained cock, pressing down to slide each button from its hole. The sudden pleasure of release as each one was slipped free.

From then, every stroke Mycroft made was echoed. Changed. Variations on twists and slides and speeding motions; while from somewhere far distant, Ella Fitzgerald was singing about Night and day. Day and day. Beating raindrops as outside the rain thundered on the street and Mycroft's heart thundered in his chest and dizzy breath came faster and faster.

Shouted cries were absorbed by the book lined walls as they spent themselves into silk and cotton. 

As order took its former hold, Mycroft said, "That cocktail was appalling," who'd actually quite enjoyed it, but by long custom must complain of Galahad's taste in drinks. 

"That was a waste of a limited release Scotch," said Galahad, who binned both squares, which Mycroft reflected meant he'd be able to verify the colour of the silk square later. He was fairly certain it was blue, but it was best to follow up supposition with observation. 

"It wasn't wasted." 

They set each other to rights. This involved slightly retrograde actions, but neither of them were young men anymore. There would be no second round on the couch. 

What there was now was a trip upstairs to don heavy silk robes and return downstairs to sip twenty year old Napoleon brandy companionably in the library. Galahad read to Mycroft from Chretien de Troyes. Mycroft closed his eyes and let Galahad's voice wash over him while he idly stroked the line of Galahad's bare leg beneath heavy blue silk.

The second round came early in the morning, before they both had to be off to work. It was still raining, and it was still dark in Mycroft's room. The only music was slow movements pulling out pleasure as long as duty would allow.


	2. Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the tink, tink, tink of the raindrops. By the clock upon the wall. Before the fiddler's have fled. Before they ask us to pay the bill. Let's face the music and dance.
> 
> Irene knew how much Gazelle loved dancing.

A bead of sweat made a long slow path down Irene's spine as she waited on the balcony of her bungalow. Even the sudden tropical rain pattering on the dense leaves of the surrounding jungle hadn't managed to cool the air. She sipped the drink sweating in her hand. Closed her eyes and savoured the dirty of the olive juice cutting the viscous cold gin on her tongue. She savoured the feeling of heat and sweat and the sound of life all around her. The storm just outside the billow of the mosquito netting.

At a meandering tink, tink, tink across the tiles behind her, Irene said, "Gazelle, a dance before you kill me." 

"Irene, if I were here to kill you," Gazelle stepped out of the shadows somehow timed with a yellow whip crack of lightning streaming from cloud to cloud, "you'd be dead." The curve of her running blades glinted in the soft light from the bedroom behind her. She stepped outside and became merely a woman in high heels. A serious woman in a sort of uniform black cotton top and leggings fitted for entirely different purposes than Irene's yellow linen dress. 

"A drink and a dance then." Irene brushed by Gazelle as she went back into her bedroom. A soft touch of skin on bare skin. Neither of them thought it was accidental.

Gazelle neither flinched away, nor leaned into the touch. "My employer was impressed at how you sabotaged the American and British fake terrorism plan without either of them realizing that you'd actually achieved your end goal. He particularly liked that Moriarty and Magnussen each paid you for your efforts, and never knew they weren't your only employer." Gazelle efficiently stepped around Irene, a warning in her blade tipped strides that Irene intended on ignoring. "Despite my advice, he would like to hire you for a project." She sliced Irene a glance. "You're for sale." 

"Don't be bitter. We all have a price." Irene set aside her half consumed martini. "As I recall, your drink of choice is gin and tonic." Irene plucked an ice cube from the bucket with the tongs and placed it in a crystal highball glass. She poured in some St. George Bontanivore gin. 

"Irene, I'm here on business." Gazelle was standing behind her now. Her breath a breeze on Irene's neck.

Irene spritzed soda into the glass and wasn't that an evocative image. "No reason we can't do both." She turned with a smile.

Gazelle placed her hands on her hips. "I'm not drinking anything you pour." 

Irene pursed her lips. "Simply because I drugged you in Budapest."

"I was thinking more of Cairo." Gazelle rubbed a finger along her neck where the syringe had gone in. 

"Ah, Cairo." Irene licked her lips. She lifted the virgin high ball glass, already sweating. "It would be such a… sin to waste it." Irene marked the rim with red. Swallowed a mouthful, and with the frame of her hand on Gazelle's cheek, kissed her. A brief flow of liquid and hardly any tongue. Irene stepped back and admired her lipstick on Gazelle's mouth. "How was that? Was there too much tonic? Not enough gin? Could you taste the star anise and bay laurel in the gin?"

Gazelle watched her with narrow dark eyes in the dim light from the single lamp by the bed. "It was fine." She licked her lips. "I don't trust you."

Irene kissed her again. Only the lingering taste of gin between them. "You shouldn't, but you do. Or you wouldn't have brought me to Mr. Valentine's attention." Irene unlocked her phone with its fifteen digit random code and pressed play. The Love Labour's Lost version of "Let's Face the Music and Dance" unspooled from the hidden speakers in competition with the rain. She held out her hand. "Why do you think I put on that kind of a show? I've missed you." 

Gazelle looked at that hand. Reached out, scooped the air under it, before turning away in a swaying stride.

Irene smirked, and waited for the return. She had it in three beats. 

It wasn't like Vienna. They didn't waltz. It wasn't like Rio. They didn't samba. It wasn't like Buenos Aires. They didn't tango. They created their own dance. Swaying and spinning to the music. Irene's dress wasn't made for wide movements. The linen was cut to attract the eye, which did tend to keep a woman from great leaps. Irene didn't need to leap. She left that to others. 

Irene made a window of her arms and spun Gazelle out and into a cross step. They were always crossing steps. Gazelle danced on the walls. She spun into slipping slides and warm skin brushing skin, heating at each touch. Songs slid one into each other. From Dance into "I've Been Thinking". 

Irene whispered. "Be my girl." A kiss to Gazelle's wrist. Irene held it high, evoking just an echo of past restricted pleasures. A brush of a finger behind Gazelle's ear. "Relax." A brush of the back of her hand along Gazelle's collar bone. 

"That's a different song." Gazelle spun away for a barest moment. Her stainless steel feet sparking arabesques across diamonds of granite amid the tiles. 

"I don't think so." Irene ran the back of her hand down the curve of Gazelle's left breast, the slightly perkier one. She pressed a marking kiss to Gazelle's sweet neck. "The Principles of Lust" started to play.

Gazelle laughed, all youth and life and confidence in her own abilities. 

Irene whispered into her ear, "There's no better aphrodisiac than laughter." Irene spun slowly around, turning her back to Gazelle. "Now be a dear and unzip me."

Irene felt a flick of a finger at the zipper at her neck. "No." 

Irene waited. 

She smiled at the slow slide down of the teeth giving way. Her dress parted around her. She let it fall and stepped out of it with a not entirely unpractised kick of her foot. "That's better." She slid her hands down the lines of her own body, which always itched slightly when finally free of clothes. "I do find underwear ruins the line of a dress."

She cupped Gazelle's breasts, the perky and the fuller one. Hardly different unless one was a connoisseur as Irene was. "I like it like this." She brushed her fingers back and forth pricking nipples through cotton against the heat. "Me naked. Helpless. You dressed in all your battle finery."

Gazelle laughed again and pulled off her shirt. Flinging it across the room. 

"There's that too." Irene swayed them back out onto the balcony. Sheltered and exposed to the storm. She whispered against a bared breast, "I'm going to bring you off without touching the beautiful cunt between your legs." 

Gazelle laughed and shoved her against a wooden post with a solid thump. She said, "I'm not." She slid fingers that were practiced at killing with knives and guns and lasers through Irene's lower lips. She brought those fingers to her lips and licked. "I like this drink better."

Irene hummed against Gazelle's ear. "Darling, how many times do I have to tell you, we have more than one erogenous zone." She kissed Gazelle behind the ear. "Here." In the hollow between her collar bones. "Here." 

Gazelle pressed her little finger inside Irene and did a little wave. "Here."

Irene laughed. What came then was a bit of a fingers and tongues race. Thumbs along kiss moistened nipples. Kisses to where the neck meets shoulder. Soft touches at elbows. Two quick fingers scissoring. Four with a thumb otherwise occupied.

Gazelle came first, laughing in Irene's arms. Possibly because lightning oh so conveniently flashed as she was on the edge. Gazelle laughed as she redoubled her efforts to Irene's pleasure. When they were limp with standing, they strolled back into the bedroom. 

Gazelle perched on the edge of the bed, still topless. She crossed her legs with the clink of crossed swords. "Does this mean that you'll be accepting Mr. Valentine's offer?"

Irene retrieved her dress, which like any battle armour didn't deserve to be discarded on the floor. "You're asking the wrong question."

"And the right one." Gazelle recrossed her legs with another sound of swords crossing.

Irene hung up her dress. "Before I accept Mr. Valentine's proposal, how many times can I make you come." 

Gazelle leaned back with both sweet breasts exposed. "We are women." 

Irene walked over the dangerous steel to straddle her. "We can come as many times as we'd like." 

Which as it happened was quite a few times. Not that Irene counted the songs in her playlist.

She left that to Mary monitoring the situation from a rather miserable rain soaked shack across the valley. In the morning, as she took a somewhat solitary recovery soak in the mineral hot spring above the bungalow, Irene murmured into her ring, "Bradamante, I hope you enjoyed that."

The darling device in her ruby earbuds provided the wry reply, "The first three times and trust me, Nimue had some choice things to say about that. This operation took months of planning. It's not so you can hook up with your ex." Irene stretched for Gazelle's benefit, who sadly was busy on the phone. She'd have to work on that. 

Mary sighed. "Le Fey, you enjoy your work too much."

Gazelle finished her phone call to her employer. "Done?"

Irene brushed back a sweat dampened tendril of hair from her forehead. She really did hope that when all this was over, she'd finally be about to recruit Gazelle. The Queenswomen could always use more Amazons and Gazelle really was breath taking. 

Irene climbed the steps out of the pool. "Yes." She raised her eyebrows. "One more for the road?" She really did hope, but in the end, saving the world really would have to come first. 

With a little hand wave at Mary cursing her from her ear, Irene enjoyed one more for the road.


End file.
